


How to assemble a cross

by Janus_my



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-11-28 22:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20951630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janus_my/pseuds/Janus_my
Summary: How do you assemble a cross? Do crosses bring back people? Do people ever come back?





	1. One

Bill showed up at the basement of BSU at around 7 AM. He couldn’t sleep in the empty house that he used to call home and decided to punch in early after spending a couple of hours tossing on the bare mattress. He was surprised to find Gregg and Wendy already in, each of them reading files and making notes. 

“Hi Bill. Gunn wants us to meet at his office in half an hour.” Gregg looked up and passed him a brown folder. 

“What’s this?” Bill put down his suitcase and started to flip over pages. “Jesus.” Part of what’s like being an agent in BSU includes starting off Monday mornings with pictures of mutilated and burnt bodies. “Where is Holden?” He looked around the room and found no sight of the younger co-worker. 

“Either in the bathroom or went to get coffee.” Wendy responded. “He will be back for the meeting. Now, what do you think of this case?” 

Bill sat down to peruse crime scene photos and local police reports. This time the case didn’t happen far away from Quantico. Several people were found tortured to death in near Southeast D.C. over the course of three weeks. All of them had intellectual disability, did menial jobs such as cleaners and lived off on subsidy and public housing. Lab results suggest that they suffered blunt force injuries in head and limbs, before someone doused the victims with petrol and burnt them into disfigured bodies. 

“What a sick fuck.” Bill blurted out while the other two people looked at him. It’s Monday. He had less than two hours of sleep last night and had finished half of his cigarettes on his morning drive here. Bill had to vent a little at least on their unsub. 

And the boy genius is no where to be seen. It’s less than fifteen minutes before they are due in Ted’s office. Bill starts to feel some sickening unease in his belly. He had been feeling this unease ever since Vacaville, and more so after Atlanta. But he put away his concerns with Holden back then, as he had other things -Nance and Brian- on his mind. Now he had been facing his empty house for a week and his unit has been informed on this new case, he can’t help but to worry about Holden.

He remembered Holden saying everyone has a rock. You just need to know which way to push to make someone crack. He doubted that idea back then. Bill always thought that people don’t just crack out of a snap. Well, maybe for serial killers who fucked up, but not for real people. Bill took a long drag of his cigarette and inhaled deeply. Kid was just too young. If Holden had two decades of law enforcement career like he did , that boy would learn how to lock up everything and throw away the keys. Compartmentalize. Start a new. 

Bill is very good at compartmentalizing. Deep down he would admit he is running away. All that monolithic bureaucratic things have got him. And those unsolved cases as well. Too many victims. Too little he can do. He was practically amazed by Holden’s matter-of-fact attitude when they were doing interviews across the country. How come the blue-eyed boy wonder was immune to all of this? Bill feels that he was drowning under water while that kid was practically walking on it. It just did not get under Holden ’ s skin. Bill secretly doubted that Holden perhaps was a bit of a sociopath, not entirely unlike the subjects they had interviewed. What’s worse is that perhaps Holden did not have a rock. 

Bill checked his watch after he read police reports of the case for the third time. Ten minutes left for Holden to show up. He remembered being this anxious when Holden disappeared over the weekend after their OPR investigation. He learnt that Holden walked out on OPR. Then the next time he saw Holden , that boy wonder was a different man. Or , a different mess. 

“ You can still dress yourself , can ’ t you? ” Bill was being abrasive after one cross-country flight. He was angry. He tried to play it down by asking Holden if he needs anything. Holden cut him short by banging the car door. One ICU trip and still the same sensitive ego. And the check Holden landed on his desk the Monday after? Jesus. On the one hand Bill secretly took a relief. Holden wasn ’ t fucking immune to those psychopaths. He was fallible as anyone else. On the other hand, at least then, Bill thought Holden was just overworked and being impulsive. Just sleep it off and get it together. Toughen up. 

Man, how wrong he was.

Holden appeared at doorframe when Bill was about to send in special forces to search for him. Despite his starched shirt and carefully-ironed jacket, Holden looked tired and lost. Before Bill could ask him where the hell were you, Holden darted a glance at Bill and said, “We should go.” 

* * *

Gunn was reading the case file when the four of them knocked on his door. They quietly sat down in front of his desk. Apparently someone does not like a case file full of burnt bodies to be his Monday morning digest. “MPD has required assistance from the Bureau for this case. They have been on this for a while. They suspect these were related to gang activities in the area, but haven’t been able to identify possible unsub yet.” Gunn said.

Bill sighed. “Can’t blame them.” SE Washington has quite a reputation for gang violence. High chances are that MPD were not able to narrow their range of suspect based on evidence alone. 

“It is unusual for gangs to target at intellectually disabled people.” Wendy raised her question. Seeing the puzzled look from Gunn, she further explained. “Mentally retarded. These people are usually not the interest of local gangs. Most of the violent gang crimes in that area were related to drugs.”

“And in the case here we are seeing mentally retarded being targeted specifically. Any thoughts on the motivation?” Gunn asked. 

“Could it be a drug-deal went wrong? Like local gangs used these mentally retarded for distributing drugs in the neighborhood.” Gregg nervously suggested. 

Bill almost laughed at this idea. “A drug distribution network with people that can’t even count dollar bills? I don’t think that’s very likely.” He got a scowl from Wendy. “These people were diagnosed with different levels of intellectual disability. Most of them do menial jobs for a living. It is possible that they were involuntarily involved in some gang activities in the area.” She said. 

“What do you think, Holden?” Gunn directed his question to Holden, who appeared to be drifting away in his own thoughts. Holden was quiet. Bill found that surprising and worrisome, given that he hadn’t been able to shut up that kid for years. 

“I… I need more time to look at this.” Holden’s answer surprised everyone, as even Gregg raised his eyebrows. Holden ducked his head. Bill started to feel that sickening unease in his stomach again. 

“You will have plenty of time.” Gunn said. “On your way to D.C. I am sending you and Bill up there. Do some groundwork. Familiarize with the case.” 

“Yes, sir.” Bill answered for Holden. Before he left Gunn’s office, he exchanged a look with Gunn, acknowledging the director’s concern and making an implicit promise that he will keep an eye on Holden. He did not know whether he can anymore, but at least he will try. 

* * *

D.C. was only an hour drive away. Bill would have appreciated the fact that he does not need to pack for flights and cheap motels, but failed as he thought of the empty space he could hardly call home. He tried to put his marriage and Brian at the back of his head and focus on the road.Holden was sitting in passenger seat, still reading his case files. He seemed to be particularly interested in layouts of the area, as he studied a map of Anacostia. 

Bill never liked Washington D.C. The place gets sweating hot in summer and bitterly cold in winters. The humidity surrounds it, together with all the politics brewing within it, are almost suffocating. He has to admit that Potomac River is nice, with waters plated in gold under sunshine and people paddling in silly kayaks. He drove across the river, went passed by Capitol Hill and entered Southeast Washington. They had a sudden change of scenery when they crossed Potomac River for the second time. Grand monuments and green spaces were replaced by utilitarian style of public housing units. A dull shade grey consisted of homogenous buildings stretched out along the road. People casted skeptical looks at their car when they stopped at traffic lights. Bill couldn’t see anyone staring at them from windows, but he knew people are watching from behind curtains. The only noticeable things, instead of the Washington Monument, were churches. This place is so full of churches that Bill found himself staring at crosses in front of each church. Do crosses really save people?

Before he could think any further, Holden asked him to stop. “Right here, Bill. We told MPD we would meet them at the first crime scene.” 

Bill pulled over and stopped the engine. He turned to look at Holden, who appears to be him normal smartass self again. “Any thoughts now?” He asked. 

Holden blinked. “We are looking at gang crimes here. Possible demonstration of power by targeting at vulnerable individuals. No sex drive.” 

Bill nodded. “So no crazy story of mildly retarded drug dealers? Gregg will be disappointed.” He opened the door and gestured Holden to get out. “Looks like our MPD guy.” 

Detective Bolten was not their usual precinct shattered-by-pyschopath-crime type of policemen. The man was in his mid-forties, tall and lean in his short-sleeved uniform, looking shrewd. Pragmatic man, Bill thought. He started to regret putting on his jacket when doing groundwork in summertime D.C. “Special agent Tench?” The man turned. “Bill. This is my partner, agent Holden Ford.” Bill extended his hand. 

Holden was already at the doorsteps of the house. He pushed open the door and entered. Bill and Bolten followed him. They climbed several flights of stairs in silence until they reached Unit B, third floor. Bolten removed the tapes on the unit door and suggested them to go in. The room’s barren white walls stood at sharp contrast to the blood stain on the floor. There were splashes of blood on the wall as well. Whoever beat the first victim - Victor Allen - must have spent real effort in torturing the poor guy. Bill found Holden looking up, then he noticed the blackened ceiling. “Fuck. They burnt him right here?” Bill asked.

“Right here. The victim was disfigured even before the burning. The perpetrator had spilled muriatic acid on the body, before burning the body with gasoline.” Bolten said. “It was night time. This building was emptied for refurbishment so nobody noticed. Victim’s mother filed a missing person report to the police. Then MPD did a search in the area before eventually finding the body here.” The detective briefly shut his eyes as if to avoid discussing the final scene. “The body was… so horribly disfigured that forensics could not determine time of death. We were able to confirm the victim’s identity only because we found his staff id card of the local hospital by the stairs.” Bolten shook his head. “This is a troubled neighborhood. But this… why bother spilling acid on the man before they burn him?” 

“Dehumanizing victims. Disfigure his face so the perpetrator would not see it.” Holden said. Bill observed Holden as the young agent stared at the blood stain contemplatively. Holden’s blue eyes were concentrated. Good, Bill thought. He remembered seeing those blue eyes diluted to pure fear and confusion in Vacaville. He also remembered when Holden’s blue eyes turned bloodshot when nineteen kids were murdered in Atlanta. He did not want to see Holden having those eyes again. 

Bill turned his focus back to the crime scene. “What about the acid? Anything that can trace back to the source?” Muriatic acid was not a common thing to be used in gang crimes here. Bolten shook his head. “This building is going through refurbishment. Construction workers use muriatic acid to clean concrete floors and hallways. Practically everyone has access to those. Workers reported they have several liters missing after we investigated.” Holden scribbled down something on his notebook before he said, “I think we should go visit victim’s mother.”

Victim’s mother, Harriet, was a small black woman in her sixties. She was clearly still in mourning, wearing all black except for a white flower in her hair. Bolten apologized

for disturbing her again, and explained that the FBI needs her assistance in solving the case. He then quietly retreated outside for a smoke. “Mrs. Allen, I am sorry for your loss. Now, I need to ask you a few questions about your son, Victor.” Bill started. 

“My Victor… He is a good boy. He is not the smartest out there, but he looks after himself and he looks after me.” Harriet’s voice was trembling. Bill sighed. Dealing with destroyed families was never his strengthen. But it’s part of the job. “Mrs. Allen, were you aware of anything abnormal the day Victor disappeared? “ He asked. 

“Nothing. He got up early - he works the morning shift at the hospital - left breakfast for me on table and went to work. He got a job as a cleaner there just a few months ago. I was so happy… I told him to be grateful, for what he had and what God has given him… God, why…” Harriet broke into tears. Holden offered his handkerchief to the woman. 

“And that’s the last time you have seen Victor.” Bill waited until the woman had caught her breath from sobbing. Harriet nodded. “He did not come back for lunch. I got worried. He usually comes back right after his shift finishes. I know my boy… He ain’t no troublemaker. I waited until three o’clock before I went to the police. I thought he probably get lost somewhere. He wasn’t bright. But he never came back…

and I couldn’t even recognize my baby when police brought me to the morgue… Victor wouldn’t hurt a fly. Who would do such a thing…” Her voice was shattered with pain and despair. Holden reached out his hand to hold Harriet’s. “Thank you Mrs. Allen. We will look into the case.” Bill and Holden stood up to leave. When they got into the car with detective Bolten, they saw Harriet stood by the door, making a sign of the cross. Probably that can rest Victor’s soul, Bill thought. 

“Sorry I did not stay in there.” Bolten said as they drove away. “I had to notice her when we identified the body. Broke my heart that time.” Bill nodded. “We understand.” The lady’s words proved that Victor had no prior gang associations. Victor’s co-workers at the St. Elizabeth hospital also vouched for that, saying Victor may be mentally retarded, but he was a hard-working and decent man. Despite rampant gang activities in the area, the neighborhood was close-knit. No way an outsider could come in and conduct a series of impulsive killings. 

So it was not retribution or gang conflicts, but not an outsider’s job either. Bill checked the rear mirror to see what Holden’s up to. Holden was digging his head deep into the case file folder, fumbling through pages. “Holden.” The kid did not look up. “Holden.” Bill raised his voice a little. Holden looked up as if he had just woke up from a bad dream, face pale and forehead full of sweat. His eyes were empty and lost. Shit. Wendy told him to look for signs. He should not have taken Holden to families of the victim. Kid had too much of that in Atlanta. Bill told Bolten immediately to drop them off at the precinct and dragged Holden into a spare conference room. “Holden. Look at me. Breath.” Bill started to search for the bottle of Valium in Holden’s pockets. “Left pocket…” Holden said in between panting. “Ok. Here, take this. Drink. ” Bill managed to help Holden swallowed down the pill with a glass of water. He had shouted at some poor rookie so loudly for water a minute ago that the poor boy went in, placed a glass of water on the desk and almost ran away. 

Holden’s breath was evening as Valium kicked in. Bill held Holden by the shoulder and kept his gaze on Holden. He saw Holden’s eyes went into a hazy shade of blue when panic attack retreated. Kid has gotten worse. He should have noticed after Vacaville and Atlanta. But he had a million things on his head and he willingly ignored the struggle his partner was going through. Plus he thought Holden will just put away those stressors. He even thought about recommending a golf club to Holden. 

Bill did not know that he would soon doubt himself about this conclusion he reached. When he returned from Atlanta, bitter with the results yet relieved about the case finally coming to a conclusion, he found himself in an empty house with Nancy, Brian and his family life vanished into thin air. It was then Bill realized that everyone cracks. He had mocked Holden about his panic attacks.  “ Take a fucking Valium ”, he said. Now Bill Tench himself could really use one. Mixed with cheap liquor store whisky. Served ice-cold. You can feel your throat being slit open when that cheap alcohol flows down like a sharp knife. Alcohol makes you so myopic that you can almost see in front of your eyes that your life is being gutted and cut into indiscernible pieces. 

It was then he started to hear a tuning fork , constantly  vibrating and resonating at the back of his head. It ’ s almost too small a sound to pick up. But it won ’ t stop. Bill still does not believe everyone has a rock. He somehow persuaded himself to ignore that sound. Nance and Brian will come back. It is hard to build a happy family life around his career. But he thought this was just another heavy cross he had to carry. He would not crack. 

Bill felt a small squeeze on his hand. Holden had recovered a bit. He still looks terrible and tired, but better than before. “Bill?” Bill lent Holden a hand to pull the kid up. “I told Bolten we will get back to him tomorrow. We should call it a day. Get some dinner.” Holden protested weakly, saying something along the lines of I’m fine and what about interviews involving other killings. But Bill was determined. “You are no good to anyone before you have some food in your stomach. I will drive.”

* * *

Bill found Holden still reading his case files in the diner. He sighed and ordered for both of them. Based on the increasing bagginess of his shirt, Holden was not eatingproperly after Atlanta. Bill, on the other hand, lived off on TV dinner and whisky. So he ordered steak and vegetables for both of them. At least better than microwave food. 

“Our unsub is not an outsider. A drifter wouldn’t have known the housing unit was under refurbishment, nor would he know who to pick for killings. These people looked normal if you don’t know them.” Holden said when Bill lit his cigarette. Bill enjoyed the moment of peace from nicotine and exhaled. “But these were not gang related. No prior history of gang relationship.” Holden frowned at the remark. “At least the unsub is picking up vulnerable individuals. But not exactly someone who couldn’t fight back. Look.” He pushed a photo of Victor in front of Bill. “Victim is a medium-built grown up male. No victims are physically vulnerable. It’s hard work to torture a grown-up male to death. We are not looking for one unsub. Possibly a group. So it is still likely to be gang crimes.”

Bill nodded in acknowledgement. “Theoretically, yes. And the neighborhood has active gangs. But what’s the motivation? Slaughtering retarded man wasn’t typical for local gangs.” 

“Demonstration of power. And control. I think we are looking at teenage crimes. Did you notice how those kids looked at us on the street?” Valium has not dulled Holden’s ability to analyze criminal minds. And he has a point. The area - Barry Farm and Anacostia were notorious for teenage crimes, drug deals and underage gang violences. Bill remembered the looks they got that afternoon when they stepped out of the victim’s home. Kids leaned on utility poles down the block, shooting doubtful glances at the three white detectives, as if they were three wolves ended up on the wrong side of territory. He had also heard tough stories from local policemen about keeping kids in that neighborhood away from gangs. In case you blinked, those youngsters would run away from their homes and end up in candy trades in almost no time, and wind up behind bars for shooting and violent crimes almost as quickly. Almost like 60-second Shakespeare, Bill recalled what Bolten had told him. “Those kids… It was inevitable, especially on these streets.” 

Bill rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a long day checking a brutal crime scene, visiting heartbroken families and rescuing Holden from his panic attack. “Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. These murders are sick as fuck. Physically demanding too. Can you imagine a some fourteen-year-olds torturing five grown men to death and burning bodies over the course of two weeks? We can’t have tunnel vision.” Bill was interrupted by the waitress serving their food. With his stomach growling louder than ever, even diner steak and potatoes smelled good to him now. He started to cut his steak. “Eat.” Holden followed his order and picked up his fork. But he merely used it to poke the pathetic-looking soggy vegetables in his plate. “I am not hungry.” Bill almost rolled his eyes. He finished his food, wiped his mouth with napkin and turned to Holden. “Ok. Then how about a drink?”

* * *

Bill got a glass of whisky while Holden asked for tonic. “No gin? We are in a bar, boy scout.” Bill found it amusing that Holden was still in suit and tie, shirt buttoned all the way up. Holden took a sip of his drink sheepishly. “I am not supposed to mix alcohol and pills.” 

“Right. My bad.” Bill put his hands up. “So, should we put up posters with ‘Wanted for murder: fifteen to twenty-year-old black male, with history of violent crime and drug abuse’? That narrows our range to about 80% people in Anacostia.” He lit his cigarette and saw Holden scowled at the smoke. 

“Bill, this is not helping. We are looking at repeated offenders here. And we need to acknowledge the high chance of our unsubs being young -teenager even- black gang members trying to make a powerful statement. It is true, and sad that people with this profile are not in short supply in that area. But this is what my instinct told me.” He fixed his blue eyes on Bill. “And you know I am right. You were in the neighborhood. You saw it yourself.” 

Bill finished his whisky in one gulp and waved at the bartender for a refill. “I don’t think we can eliminate racial hate crimes at this stage. What kind of statement it is for black teenagers to kill retarded black people? More like a Klan statement to me.” He focused on his glass as the bartender poured him a second drink. He did not want to meet Holden’s eyes. He knew Holden was profiling him again. 

“Bill… I know you don’t want to associate teenagers with serial killings. But we all know these murders rarely cross racial lines. And from our interviews you know deviant behaviour started from an early age-“ Holden didn’t get to finish as Bill thumped his glass on the bar table. “I know what I know from our interviews. And those are theories. Jesus, how come you can talk about this shit as if it means nothing? That neighborhood is full of troubled kids - they do all kinds of stupid shit. But this? This is a psychopath doing horrible things to someone who wouldn’t kick a cat.” Bill stared at the lone ice cubes in Holden’s glass. “And don’t talk about all that aberration manifested early cliche. It doesn’t break you - when you see kids being put behind bars and just rotted away there? In five years either you heard they were transferred from one facility to another, or you read from a small column on Washington Express that they have died in custody. When you see local paper put up their high school year-book photo next to the obituary, shrunk so much that you hardly recognize the face-don’t you ask yourself did you do the right thing?” 

Bill himself was surprised by what he blurted out. This does not sound like something from a career G-men. Perhaps he was not talking about the case. He was talking about his own remorse, doubt and guilt. About Nance, Brian, and himself. He sighed. “Look, Holden. All I am saying is that we should not eliminate any possibilities.” Holden was still profiling him. Boy wonder can be a real pain in the ass when he decides he would not back down. But Holden did this time. “Sure, Bill.” He said. 

Bill felt his heart sank all the way to his stomach. He wanted to apologize for snapping at Holden like that but he didn’t know what to say. So he pulled out his wallet, left enough bills to cover both drinks and grabbed his jacket. “Come on. It’s late. You need some sleep.” Holden extended his hand to Bill silently. “Fine. You drive.” Bill tossed the car keys to Holden. 

They drove in silence. There were not much lights coming out from the windows of those identical public housing units. The road was quiet. Bill fished into his pocket for one last cigarette, only to find he had already emptied his pack. “How was Brian?” Holden broke the uncomfortable silence hanging between them. Not in a comfortable way though, Bill thought. He hesitated for a moment before answering. “Fine.” Holden does not need to know his world. Kid would not know what a married man’s world looks like. Why would he feel the need to show his world to Holden in his mirror? After all his world has collapsed into a colossal mess since he came back from Atlanta. It ’ s tricky when you are married , you either deny it or you choose to have a private space. Bill is in denial that his world has crumbled. He somehow expects things would be alright again, no matter how wishful thinking it appears to be. 

“Ok. Bill, if you need to talk to someone-“ Holden turned to look at Bill with those goddamn pale blue eyes. He attempted to pat Bill on the shoulder with only his left hand on the steering wheel. “Eyes on the road Holden!” Bill leaned and turned their car just in time to avoid crashing into an incoming car. The other car flew past them with loud music and teens shouting “can you fucking drive”. Holden managed to drive past the junction. Bill saw a thin layer of sweat shining on Holden’s forehead. “You are in no condition to drive.” Bill stormed out from passenger seat and took over the steering wheel. “I am dropping you off at your place and I will call a cab.” Holden made no protest at this. 

They reached Holden’s apartment in less than an hour. Holden was a bit surprised when Bill followed him into the building. “Gotta use your phone, remember?” Bill reminded him. Holden nodded, pulled out his keys and opened the door. 

Wow. Textbook definition of model homes. Bill thought as he surveyed the room. Utilitarian furnitures. No trace of any sort of decoration. Almost like a spacious version of the motels they have stayed in. Immaculate, very put-together and meticulously tidy. Very Holden. He was still in awe when he heard Holden’s voice from the bathroom. “Phone is in the kitchen.” Holden sounded like he has already gotten into the shower. 

“Thanks.” Bill went into the kitchen and started to dial. He paused half-way, then hung up and dialed again. He waited patiently for the monotonic dial tone to play well over a minute. Then he sighed and put down the speaker. He had dialed all the numbers on top of his head last week, seizing every bit of hope that he would reach Nancy, that she would pick up on second ring and tell him she just took Brian out for a long vacation. Bill knew this sounded absurd, but at least he had the liberty to wait. And hope. 

“Is the cab coming?” Holden emerged at the kitchen door, rubbing his wet hair with towels. He had changed into undershirts and pajama pants, looking better than the pale shadow he was couple of minutes before. Bill rubbed his eyes. He was tired. His whole world is like a fucking Gordian knot. Might as well just cut it. 

“No. I didn’t call the cab. I called Nancy…I tried to call Nancy.” Holden looked genuinely concerned. “She wasn’t home? I can drive you back now to see if everything is ok-“ He paused when he saw Bill gave him a wry smile. “What happened?”

“She left. Took Brian with her and emptied the house. I have been trying to reach her for a week now. Called all her friends and relatives. Nothing.” Bill leaned on the kitchen counter. “She had said she thought we should move out, saying a change of scene would be good for Brian after… after what happened. I wasn’t sure. I told her we should wait until I get back from Atlanta. Turns out she wouldn’t wait that long.” Bill sighed. “I was distracted. You are right about me being half a man all the time.” A flash of guilt appeared on Holden’s face. “I am sorry, Bill. I really am.” He leaned closer to Bill, encroaching on the space between them. Holden smelt like soap, cold water and clean cotton towels. This is wrong. They are co-workers, not a pair of sobbing men hugging each other after one miserable AA meeting. Bill found himself staring at Holden’s messy wet hair and wanting to straighten those curls with his fingers. 

“A drink?” Holden did lean in, but just to open the cupboard over Bill’s head. Bill was surprised to see a bottle of bourbon. “Debbie’s legacy.” Holden poured a glass for Bill before he got himself water. “So this was right after Atlanta.” 

“Yeah.” Bill took a sip of his drink. Warm bourbon sucks. Still, it was better than him going home and sitting on his bare mattress for another sleepless night. Things were not working properly even before Atlanta and Brian. But he had chosen, purposefully, to ignore the signs. He preferred golf courses. Even road school was better than returning home to the resentment of his wife and avoidance of his own son. 

He remembered how as a child he used to stay up late playing tin man on the rugs next to the door , drawing colorful figures with crayons , and listening to the sound of rain hitting window glasses. He expected to see his father coming through that door frame , bending down and telling him  “ look what I've got you today. ” But nobody ever bent down to him with a fistful of surprises. 

He has come a long way since that. He had walked many miles , went undercover many operations and fought a war to become the Bill Tench today. He tried to bethere for his family. True, he wasn’t always around. He had too many crosses to bear. But he tried to be the father who would bend down to give his son a handful of chocolates, rub that little head and listen to every single silly adventure Brian had. But it seems that Bill was always the one who was left behind in disappointment. He had been up and down and over and out. That’s life. 


	2. Two

“Wendy said something the other day.” Bill put down his glass on the kitchen counter. Holden looked a little hurt when he realized Wendy had known this. “She said none of this was my fault. Nancy said that too. But I kept thinking: Was it because how we treated him? Or what other kids told him?” Bill stared at his drink as if that light brown liquid held all the answers he wanted. “Or is it just him?” 

Holden took away Bill’s bourbon and poured it into kitchen sink. “Moral landscape is a delicate thing. Classic theory suggests a child’s moral sense is so fragile that it can easily be affected by poor environment and lack of care.” Jesus. Holden never cease to surprise Bill with pedantry. Holden rinsed the glass carefully, wiped it with table cloth and turned it against the light to make sure it was clean. 

“So perhaps we are all at fault.” Bill came to this bitter conclusion. Holden put the clean glass back into cupboard and turned his gaze back to Bill. “I don’t know, Bill.” He said it as if this does not carry any weight. “There’s only so much we can do. You told me that.” Bill searched Holden’s face for a single trace of mockery but he failed. Boy wonder meant everything he said. Any other person who had thrown these words back to Bill would have taken a solid punch on face right now. He had raised up his fist and stopped midway. With Holden, he simply couldn’t.

Holden, to Bill’s surprise, grabbed him on the arm and squeezed. Bill can smell a mixture of lemon and clean sheets now. With three whiskies down he was drunk enough to sniff when Holden moved closer. “You smell like laundry room.” He regretted the moment he said this. There was a siren going off at the back of his head, with red and blue warning lights flashing brightly. Bill thought Holden is the one with no idea of professional distance. Must be contagious. 

Then he saw Holden’s face closing in and he felt something soft on his lips. Fresh lemon and mints, almost like a light summer day cocktail. Bill was in such shock with himself wanting to lean in and deepen the kiss. Holden’s lips reminded him of peach fizz and warm sunlights on his face when they drove through California for road school. Holden pulled himself away and smacked his lips. “You taste like old spice.” Damn kid frowned and added. “And Maker’s Mark.” Bill sighed. His whole life had descended into something that scares the shit out of him. Adding one more thing into that didn’t even scare him anymore. 

“Fuck you, Holden.” What a smug.

* * *

Bill was dreaming. He was seven years old again, fishing with his dad at the lake nearby. He got overexcited when he felt that fish was on the line, and stumbled and fell into water when trying to set the hook. 

Water was closing in. It was early morning hours with sun on the horizon. But it was so dark underwater that he can barely see. He first thought water was only at chest level , then he realized water was over his head. He started to kick , arms down and trying to keep his head above water. Yet he was still sinking. All his struggle seemed only to let him sink faster. Then at one point he gave up. It was pointless to fight so he spread out his arms and let go. He tilted his head backwards and felt light. He felt nothing but water surrounding him , embracing him , eventually dissolving him. 

He sprang up eyes wide on his own mattress. Soft sunshine was seeping in through curtains as the clock points to six o’clock. Bill tried to turn his head and heard his neck cracking in protest. He resisted the urge to look at the empty space on the other side of the mattress and went into the bathroom. He looked terrible. And he felt worse. Last night with Holden was like a short illusion that left only bitter taste in his mouth the morning after. It was funny how one drunken kiss spun him right into a puritanical lust-guilt cycle. It’s alright. Last night was the least of his concern right now. His house was empty. His marriage was crashing. And he still didn’t know why his own son freaked him out. He compartmentalized all of this. So he could compartmentalize last night as well. Part of professionalism package. 

He got to office at around 8, after stopping for cigarettes and takeaway coffee on the way. “We should visit the hospital. All our victims were institutionalized there and subsequently released for community treatment. It is the hunting ground.” Holden passed him a comparison sheet of victims without raising his eyes from case files. 

“Good morning, Holden.” Bill rubbed his eyes.“At least let me finish the coffee.” 

Wendy simply raised a perfect eyebrow at Bill. He knew he looked like shit in yesterday’s cloth and bags under his eyes.He had forgotten to do laundry. He barely remembered to do anything anymore. “We put together some background info while you were out.” Wendy pointed to the whiteboard. “We have five victims. All black males diagnosed with different degrees of mental retardation. Records showed that they were put under community inclusion scheme for better recovery.” 

“Community inclusion?” Bill asked. “St. Elizabeth was the first place to try this out. Recovered patients -and those that do not pose a threat to others- are allowed to go back to their homes and interact with the rest of the neighborhood. They are encouraged to participate in social activities and simple jobs to better adjust themselves back into society.” Wendy said.

“I don’t know. It puts me on nerves if some mentally-ill are wandering at ease near my house.” Gregg said. “Does the community want these people back?” 

“Ex mentally-ill.” Wendy corrected him. “The victims were not criminally insane patients - they did not pose a threat to anyone. And they had made steady improvements according to visiting reports by social workers. Social inclusion is imperative to their recovery.” 

“Maybe for them. But not for everyone.” Bill said while perusing leads written on the whiteboard. “The victims were released back to where they were from - Anacostia for all five. I can hardly imagine a Welcome Back party in that neighborhood.” 

“Could it be a neighborhood vigilante thing?” Gregg suggested. Wendy frowned. “I don’t see that. We usually see ex-patients being ostracized after returning to their original community. Murder and mutilation of this level are not usual.” 

“They were easy preys.” Holden said from the far corner of the room. “You said they were harmless to everyone. But local community still alienated them because of their illness. This could be a perfect demonstration from local gangs - they want their streets to be theirs only. Gang members could even take pride in these murders, claiming that they were cleaning up the neighborhood. Especially for young boys seeking acknowledgement from senior members.” 

Black gangs cleaning up retarded people of the same race by murder and torture seemed like a stretch. Bill thought. Then he recalled the day Nance asked him to pick up Brian at school. Brian’s school district was predominantly white, but underneath that unanimity there were so many subtle notions of us and them. Bill had seen it himself how Brian walked out from the hallway nervously with his head ducked and gaze firmly on the ground, while other kids were engaging in games and eager conversations. You never know what kind of cliques kids got themselves into, like a thousand tiny little islands segregated from each other. Perhaps not just isolated. Brian might be bullied as well, at least that’s what Nance believed. 

“How was your visit yesterday?” Wendy turned to ask Bill. “Got nothing that we didn’t know. Unsub burnt everything at the crime scene. We talked to victim’s family but there was nothing useful.” He skipped the part of Holden’s panic attack and… and everything happened later. His memory did not fail him in this case. “We could go to the hospital and talk to someone that knew our victims. See whether we can dig some connections.” He took off his reading glass and sighed. “Not much hope though. Our victims are not the gregarious type.” 

“We could ask them to release victim’s clinical records to us. It would be useful for profiling our unsub, in terms of choice and preferences. I asked Ted for permission documents this morning.” Holden added a piece of paper into his file folder. “We should go.”

* * *

St. Elizabeth hospital occupied a large footprint nearby Anacostia. High walls, long fences and an impressive watchtower-like Center Building made it almost look like a prison. With wards, treatment rooms and even a farm spreading on more than 350 acres of land, it is Bedlam of the district. It has a formidable reputation, like an aura signifying the hospital being a secluded space amid surrounding neighborhoods. No wonder they put that psycho here for trying to shoot Reagan. He would fit right in. 

Bill had been to many correction facilities and seen his fair share of lunatics before. But psychiatric hospital proved to be an eye-opener for him. You would expect hurried nurses, doctors carrying stethoscopes busy writing prescriptions and heavy smell of chlorine bleach. Instead you were greeted with an eerie tranquility.People - patients - dressed up in their Sunday bests and sat quietly on their beds, staring at blank walls in front of them. Another group of women were doing some sewing work in a large room, their fingers moving mechanically in synchronization. There were no jolly chit-chats and gossip whispers, just silence. “Helps them to feel useful. Part of their therapy.” Doctor Dickinson, the superintendent of deinstitutionalizing department explained. She spoke quickly and assuredly, with the kind of breezy conclusiveness you’d want from a nurse or a pilot. They walked past an autopsy room with closely-shut curtains hanging behind the glass door. “We had more than fifteen thousand autopsies since foundation. And an impressive collection of preserved brains in formaldehyde as well. Research purposes. We are a dedicated research institution.” 

Bill gulped as he thought of tall shelves packed with brains in glass jars. Quite a sight. “How many patients are in the community inclusion program? We would appreciate it if the hospital can release some of their record to us. ” “Less than fifty. And only around ten were granted permission to go back to their homes. Only those that proved not to be a threat to people around them. We also have regular follow-up visits to make sure they are making progress.” Doctor Dickinson said. “Right this way, gentlemen. I would need to let Dr. Owen take over from here. He is in charge of assessing patient’s mental status and eligibility of releasing them back to home. He would answer your questions about records. ” She led Bill and Holden into a corner office, introduced them to Dr. Owen and politely shut the door behind her when she left. Must be busy like hell for a superintendent here. 

“Agents. What can I do for you?” Dr. Owen reached out to shake hands with Bill. “Bill. And my partner, Holden.” Bill shook the doctor’s hand, which was like cold wax and left a chill down his spine. it felt like a surgeon’s hand, well-oiled, steady yet cold. More like a precision machine. “We would like to ask you a few questions about some patients you had before.” Holden said. 

“You need to be more specific than that. We sometimes took in more than a dozen patients on a single day.” Dr. Owen sat back behind his desk and put on his glasses. He looked no older than late-forties, with pale skin, a clean buzz cut and manicured nails. If he wasn’t in his white coat now Bill would place him as a businessman or a lawyer for the meticulously neat feeling he gave off. “You never know how many mentally-ill people are out there.” 

“Right. We are interested in someone in the community inclusion scheme-Victor Allen. He was released around two months ago? And he also worked here as a janitor?” Holden asked while reading his tiny notebook. Kid’s a John Watson that never part with his notebook, Bill thought. “We would need his mental assessment and treatment records. Maybe talk to doctors and nurses that treated him.” Bill added. 

“You found the right man. I treated him.” Dr. Owen pulled out his own journal and started to look through it. Bill noticed initials A.O. on the cover of that calf-skin journal. He glanced at the book shelves behind the doctor, where he saw another five volumes of same-looking journal notebooks. All with golden initials monogramed on the cover and spine. “Here. Victor Allen. Diagnosed mild retardation. Possibly due to lead poisoning at an early age. Showed progress of adjusting to social interactions and simple tasks after cognitive-behavioral treatments. That’s why we granted permission for him to go home and try out a menial job here at the hospital.” Dr. Owen closed his journal. “I am afraid you need to ask record office for official detailed assessment records. He deserved better than what happened.” 

Bill raised an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?” Neither he and Holden had mentioned what happened to Victor. And officially FBI only notified the hospital stating they have interests in the community inclusion scheme. The doctor was not disturbed by this question. He seemed composed and perfectly at ease. “We have regular visits to his home as a follow-up procedure. We went a week ago. Harriet was just destroyed for what happened to Victor.” 

“Then are you aware of Victor having any enemies in the neighborhood? Or someone who dislikes him? Harriet said he was well-behaved.” Holden pursued the matter. Bill knew what Holden was doing. He was trying to pinch and poke the good doctor and see what reactions he would get. And boy wonder wouldn’t let go of any detail that can help him do profiling. It’s like how you tap on a metal water tank and listen to the sound carefully so that you can determine how much water is in it. 

Dr. Owen laughed. “Victor’s behavior has nothing to do with whether he has enemies. In here, we say he is mentally retarded. You know what they call him out there? Moron, idiot and imbeciles. You name it. Victor would not even argue with anyone - but those kids on the streets would still bother him.” Holden was taking notes of doctor’s word. 

“Bother him?” Bill asked. Doctor shrugged. “Have you seen the neighborhood? Anacostia is not an easy place for Victor or his kind. They say we have a bunch of crazies in here. But out there they have their fair share of crazies too.” He paused. “That’s why Dr. Dickinson had insisted for Victor to get back here, saying he would be safer. But we don’t have enough funding to institutionalize everyone. So she put him to work here as a janitor, thinking at least he could support himself and not spend too much time in his neighborhood. Alas.” His tone was flat and matter-of-fact, like an impartial observer of this incident. Bill thought either doctors were all like that, or there was something particularly wrong with this Dr. Owen. 

“Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I still have ward visit this morning-“ Dr. Owen stood up and ready to see Bill and Holden out. “Just one more thing, doctor.” Bill interrupted the doctor. “We at the FBI are very interested in your community inclusion scheme here - we also have agents that suffer from difficulty in social interactions.” Bill was thinking of Holden. He deserves a “Outstanding wet blanket of the year” award. “What do you think of the scheme? Is it good for the patients’ recovery?”

Dr. Owen was reticent for a moment. “Agent… I believe you understand that most patients on the social inclusion scheme were mentally retarded. I personally would consider them as disabled, rather than diseased. There is no way to cure the disabled. We release them back to their community for social integration, but also for reducing pressure on our funding. We don’t have enough resources or responsibility to keep them.” He briefly looked away before he added. “And I don’t think society have resources or duty to keep them neither.” He paused there. “I will show you to the record room. You would need official documents before the office can release patient records to you.” 

Holden was busy signing papers to get the records they need, while Bill brooded over Dr. Owen’s words. St. Elizabeth was the first hospital to promote community and deinstitutionalizing treatment for mentally diseased. Yet this good-hearted doctor just stated that all of this was to economize. We only treat the diseased, not the disabled. People thought if they go to the hospital, see someone and swallow down some tiny blue pills every night they would eventually get better. But there’s only so much a hospital can do. Bill recalled their sessions of taking Brian to the child psychiatrist every week, how Brian kept kicking the coffee table in front of him and the silence. The dreadful silence. The society has no resource or duty to keep these people. The doctor had talked about these people as if they were just some objects, some malfunctioning machine, or worse, some rotten apple that from the start were beyond saving. He talked about this as if he just saw some dead fish that belong to nowhere but the dump. 

“Would you help? There is another in there.” Holden showed up from the office with a large box in hand. “Did they write a biography for each of them?” Bill took over the heavy box from him. “Details would help us to find connections.” Holden stacked the other box on top of the one Bill’s already carrying. “We still have time to visit other crime scenes. I called Detective Bolten just now.” He started to walk out breezily. “Not so fast, Tin Lizzie.” Bill raised the two giant boxes of records in hand. “You want to look at these first?” 

Holden thought for a moment. “We can do that tonight.” Great. He had nothing else to do anyways, Bill thought. 

They went to the crime scene for victim number two and four. Bolten told them the other two victims were discovered at a local dump site posthumously. They hadn’t been able to locate the exact scene of torture and murder. All victims were beaten up before been spilled with acid and burnt. “Forensics could not determine exact cause of death. We only knew they died of blunt-force trauma but have no idea about potential weapon.” This crime scene were almost the same with the first one. Victims -again retarded patients granted permission to return home - were tortured and disfigured by acid, then burnt with gasoline in an empty building under construction. No eyewitnesses as there was no night shift work. Workers found the body and reported to the police. 

“So this was three days after the first victim.” Bill checked his case file. “And this site was a few blocks from the first scene.” Their unsub kept his pattern. “Is that a playground?” Holden was looking out from windows. Victims were found in one room on fifth floor. Bill went over and saw a small park in distance with a few black kids playing ball. “Oh, yes. Local kids sometimes hang out there.” Bolten said. “I won’t bother to go there if I were you. Almost every kid out there belong to one gang or another. No way they are gonna talk to Feds.” 

“Can we talk to their families? At least get some background from them. I still think these murders are gang related.” Holden asked. “Agent Ford, I hate to say this but I am afraid that’s impossible.” Bolten said. “Why? I am sure they all have families.” Holden pressed on. God. This kid didn’t know when to stop. “Look, more than half of these kids have nothing like a family - their parents were either behind bars or never around. Even if the adults were around, they are often too drunk or too high to notice what their kids are up to. Those youngsters went to gangs precisely because they didn’t have a family to speak of and needed to find somewhere they belong.” Bolten gave Holden a meaningful glance. “With all due respect, agent Ford, I assume you do not have kids? You probably would understand this better if you have.” 

“Thank you, detective.“ Bill thanked Bolten before Holden could say something stupid. Just in time. The last thing Bill needed is standing between an offended precinct officer and his smartass know-it-all partner. He suspected Bolten was already doubting Holden’s methods, calling it something like psychological mumbo jumbo. “We will look into victim’s records and get back to you if we have any questions.” 

“Anytime.” Bolten nodded and left for his own car. Bill waited until local detective’s car went out of sight before he turned back to Holden, who was still staring at the playground afar. “Next time you want to offend an officer, just let me know.” He pat Holden on the back. “Happy to clean up after you.” 

Holden skirted around Bill’s mockery. “How can we understand our unsubs if we can’t even talk to them?” Bill put up his hands and backed off. “Wow slow down here. Since when did our unsub become black kids playing ball in the park?” 

“Bill. Those teenage gang members who are in the trade and violent crimes are exactly the same kids you referred to as ‘playing ball in the park’. They need to make something out of themselves more than anyone else. Teenagers can be crudely brutal when it comes to pride.” Bill can see that boy wonder was again, completely confident with his profiling. “How about we go back and read victims’ records? Could be someone close to them and knew them.” 

Holden sighed. “Ok. And we can get takeouts on the way.” Bill smirked. “Chinese?”

* * *

They were back in BSU basement, two heavy boxes and another few boxes of Chinese takeouts in hand. Wendy and Gregg had left, but they also left notes for them on the desk, saying forensics from the precinct sent in additional reports on victim’s found in dump site. “They found iron bars in the dump site. Unsub may have used that as weapon.” Bill read. “Fingerprints?” Holden asked as he opened the takeout box and sniffed at the smell of chicken. “Nah. Wiped clean. Very organized.” Bill put down the reports and fumbled in the takeout bag for chopsticks. 

“Usual practice for gang crime. Scratching off serial number on guns and wiping other weapons as well. They probably get the idea of using acid on victims for disfiguration from those practices.” Holden mumbled with a mouthful of sweet and sour chicken. 

“What do you think of Dr. Owen?” Bill threw the question at Holden. He had a hunch about the good doctor. Not a positive one. Holden looked puzzled. “What about Dr. Owen?”

“There was something fishy. Our victims are all connected back to him - he treated all of them. Did you see his monogramed notebooks? Textbook narcissist.” Bill thought of something and pulled out Victor Allen’s file. “Look. Record says Victor’s latest home visit was a month ago - that was before he was murdered. No way Dr. Owen knew what happened from a site visit.” He crossed his arms. “Someone that has access to victims, huge ego, and cannot corroborate his own words. And all that talk about mentally retarded as scum of society? I would say we have our man.” 

Holden did not appear to be convinced. He was so eager to finish his food that he took a big gulp of water and almost choked. “But he did mention that the neighborhood was extremely hostile to these victims. You are right about him being a narcissist - but aren’t all doctors and lawyers narcissists?” And FBI agents who love profiling, Bill thought. “He was very organized, even had his nails manicured. But that was more of an occupational hazard. Our crime scenes were messy. Usage of acid and burning together was entirely unnecessary if he just wanted to wipe out evidence. He is a medical professional so I would assume he knew better. Our unsubs are impulsive. He was nothing of such.” Holden cracked his fortune cookie and started to read the note. “It says ‘I cannot help you, for I am just a cookie’.” 

Bill cracked up at Holden’s expressions. “Sounds about right.” He was about to tease Holden further but interrupted by his telephone ringing. “BSU. Tench.”

“Bill?” He froze upon hearing the voice. “Nancy?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ;)


	3. Three

It was Nancy. “I called home but there was no answer.” She said.

Bill sighed. “I got a case. How’s Bri?”

“He’s fine. We are fine. I left him to mom today. I needed to drive down and show the house.” Nancy said. Her voice was steady and flat. 

“Show the house?” Bill was dumbfounded. His wife and son left for almost two weeks and now she just called in about showing a house?

There was a brief inhale sound from the other side, like someone was trying to collect herself. “Our house. I put it on listing when I left. I told you we would be moving. Someone called yesterday asking for a tour. A young family, no kids, lovely people. I showed them the house this afternoon. They love it and are willing to pay a premium to get the house.” 

Bill had thought about apologies and genuine talks ever since he got back from Atlanta. Instead he found himself grabbing the receiver as if that was the lifeline to save his sinking marriage.“What do you want, Nancy? My signature on the sale agreement? Do you want me to bring some banker’s boxes so that I can move my stuff out tonight? Maybe reserve a moving truck as well?” He didn’t know what to say or whether he wanted to do this any longer. “We need to talk.”

“We are talking.” She didn’t back down. 

“Not like this. Where are you?” There was a long silence. Bill almost thought Nancy hang up on him. “Alvy’s. I am about to leave. Just paid for my coffee.” 

“I am coming. Won’t be long.” He put down the receiver and grabbed his jacket. On his way out, Bill bumped into Holden pacing outside the office. “Is everything ok? Was that Nancy?” 

“I need to go home. Nancy wants to talk. ” Holden didn’t say anything. So Bill just nodded and went into the elevator. 

“Bill, I am sorry.” That was the last thing he heard from Holden before metallic doors closed smoothly in front of him. 

* * *

Bill lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He needed some momentary peace before driving back home. Alvy’s was a small diner in the neighborhood that he and Nance used to go all the time. That was before things took a nosedive.

Nance. He didn’t know this name anymore. This name belonged to a person that didn’t exist anymore. This name existed only because some stupid and ignorant world that had left this name to be associated with a stranger. Bill had tolerated this stupid and careless world as he still uses this name to call the stranger he doesn’t know. In fact, that name belongs to someone in the past. At that time that someone would say something softly by the lake, next to a bonfire at night, or at the market in state fairs, “Hey Bill, listen-“ He didn’t see this person anymore. 

Perhaps Nance didn’t see him as well. She just saw one missing piece in her self-imagined new life. Bill dreaded at the idea. He can tolerate his wife being impatient and angry with him. He himself was not blameless. What he couldn’t stand is the fact that Nance had plenty of empathy and understanding for Brian and everyone else, but not for him. It was like a beggar asking someone for change and seeing the man opened his wallet full of franklins yet only gave him one dollar. He did not want those hundred bills at the time. But he couldn’t bear the thought of that man sparing him only a dollar despite having so much. 

* * *

Bill parked his car by the street and went into Alvy’s. It always had a familiar feeling to Bill, like a default option you would go to when you feel a little nostalgia. There was no sight of Nancy so he sat himself by the bar. 

“Haven’t seen you for a while.” Slyde, the waiter who Bill had known ever since his first visit here, poured him a cup of coffee. “Nancy just went outside for a smoke. If you are looking for her.” Bill’s heart leaped a little and plunked, like a frog into the lily pond. He thought he had just missed her. “Thanks.”

Bill raised his head and looked into the mirror hanging behind the bar, from which he saw Nancy walked in. To be exact, he saw the reflections of her coming in. Bill did not turn back immediately. He gazed into the reflections of Nance as if she came from some distant memories deep in his head. Like a brown leaf frozen in clear river ice reminds you suddenly of the time when trees were golden and shiny under the warm autumn sun. But it was Nancy, not his memories, that was in front of him. She searched the restaurant, finally saw Bill sitting by the bar and started to walk towards him. Bill did not turn to her, and he didn’t meet her eyes in the mirror. She sat down next to him and said, “Hi.” 

He didn’t answer. Instead he lit a cigarette and said to Slyde, “You know what, Slyde? You might not see me coming here anymore. We are moving.” Nancy’s face turned pale with her eyes clouding in anger. “Oh. Congratulations-“ Slyde’s face was expressionless, like morning dishes in the sink. “A drink, Mrs. Tench?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Nancy asked for a martini. Bill finally turned to her, to something angry, gloomy and imminent. Nancy stirred her martini with a straight face. She never showed excessive emotions on her face. But the tightness of her skin over her fine bones suggest that there were always deep yet controlled emotions beneath the calm and steady surface. Like flames behind the glass. Now, Bill can see that her emotions were almost running out of her control. If those flames were a bit higher and stronger, the glass would explode. 

Nancy finished her drink and thanked Slyde. “You want to talk? Let’s talk outside.” She led Bill out of Alvy’s. They walked into the night that was filled with smell of gasoline and roasted coffee beans. 

“Is this all funny to you? You had a great sense of humor back there.” She said pointedly. “When are you moving?” 

Bill avoided the question. “You got a house already?” He can see Nancy holding on to her purse strap tightly, her knuckles turning white from the tight grip. “No. But soon. I put down deposit for a nice house in Alexandria already. I told you that neighborhood would be better for Brian. And for us.”

Bill extinguished the cigarette with his shoes. “What is us, Nancy?” He grounded the stump a few more times. “I said we will talk about this when I get back. Then I wrapped up in Atlanta and returned to an empty home. I had not heard from you and Brian for almost two weeks. Now you are telling me you made the decision to sell our house, move to Alexandria and that’s better for us?” He was standing with the woman he married to for twenty years in a peaceful suburban summer night, witnessing how his life crumbled into ashes in front of his eyes. 

“You still won’t admit that moving is better for Brian.” Nancy pressed her lips into a thin line. 

“No, it’s not better for him. Brian needs a familiar environment for him to recover. We can take him to other psychiatrists - I have spent past five years in behaviour sciences. I know this is the way to help him.” 

Nancy turned her head away. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t know what’s best for Brian. You were never around.” She was suppressing trembles in her voice. “And for him to recover? Brian was just confused. He would get over things soon when we move him to a better environment. And if you stay at home longer to play with him.” 

Bill wished that was the case. Instead he started to think of the serial killers he and Holden had interviewed. It always started with an absent father and an over-controlling mother. But there were also something else about them. Not every forgotten child turn to commit cold-blooded crimes. 

“I left documents for selling the house in the mailbox. You might want to pick it up.” Nancy looked to the direction of parking lot. 

Bill felt his head was about to explode. “Let’s not play this game anymore. This is not going to work.” 

Nancy looked away while Bill studied her. You would need to get rid of the influence of time and problems to truly see someone. Bill couldn’t do that. “Fine. I will find a lawyer then. You should as well.” She started to walk towards the parking lot. Bill didn’t try to stop her. He watched until her car disappeared into the stretching darkness.

So this is the end of it. He didn’t know how they ended up like this. The answer to that was in all the years before, and a thousand tiny cuts between them. 

* * *

Bill drove home, picked up documents from the mailbox and sat down on front door steps. He searched his pockets for cigarettes but found one fortune cookie instead. He must have put it there when he hurried out of office. He broke the cookie in half, took out the note and read it. It says “Do what you can and accept what you can’t.” Bill wondered whether he knew the difference between the two.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there in numbing summer heat until he heard his phone shrieking loudly. He waited for it to stop, but it kept on ringing. So he went in and picked up. “Hello?” He sounded like he just swallowed down ten pieces of sandpaper. 

It was Holden. “Bill? We have another body. Fifteen-year-old gunned down. Found near Barry Farm. Not one of the patients.” Bill paused before he heard himself saying, “I’m on my way.” 

He arrived at Barry Farm in about an hour. Holden was at the crime scene, talking to Detective Bolten. He looked concerned and even a little confused. Bill went over and asked, “What do we have?” 

“Charlie Keys - fifteen-year-old, found dead a few blocks from an empty public housing unit. Shot down - still waiting for ballistic reports. No sign of torture.” Bolten answered. 

“No torture? This doesn’t fit the pattern.” Bill raised his brows.

“Could be a change of MO. We’ve seen that in Atlanta.” Holden said. “When can we hear from ballistics?” He turned to ask Bolten. The detective shrugged. “I asked them to run analysis already. You could wait at the precinct if you want.”

“Good. We can do that.” Holden went directly towards Bill’s car. “I will drive.” 

Bill and Holden occupied two ends of the long table in precinct’s conference room. Bolten went to check with the lab and left them a deck of crime scene photos. The victim was found on the pavement and probably was running when being shot, judging from the shape of blood splash he left. “He didn’t have a rap sheet. No mental illness records either.” Bill said after checking the files. “Is this even related to our guy?”

“I think they fucked up.” Holden said without looking up from the photos. “I think Charlie here was only collateral damage. He was found near an empty building-usual crime site for our suspects. He must have seen something that our unsub need to kill him before he could talk to the police.” Holden thought for a moment. “Our unsub panicked. That’s why they shot Charlie. No previous cases involve a gun because it could be traceable.” 

Bill sighed deeply. “Holden. We did not have another mentally retarded that was tortured and burnt. So where is your ‘major damage’? I don’t think this is related to our cases.” He added further. “Even if it is related, I think the unsub is making a statement. To you.”

Now Holden looked very confused. “To me?”

“He knows what you want. You wanted to find him. Bring justice to those victims.” Bill said. “He knows your drive. And that’s how he knows your secret.”

Holden interrupted. “I don’t get it-“

“He knows you are all too eager to solve the case. So he threw you this entirely out of pattern thing to confuse you. To misguide you.” Bill saw Holden almost deflated in front of him. “He knows you want to do good.” 

Holden looked like he took a hit on his head. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No, it is not. But it can be used against you.” Bill stood up and put down one hand on Holden’s shoulder. Holden was shaking violently now. Jesus. Bill instinctively started to search Holden’s jacket for the Valium bottle. 

“I left it… at home…” Holden was gasping, his mouth opened wide like a dying fish out of water. Bill lifted Holden up from the chair and helped Holden to lean against the wall, hoping that this could help him to breath. He put both hands under Holden’s arms to steady the pale man. “Lean on me. Breath.” 

To Bill’s surprise Holden dragged him into a hug. He can feel Holden’s rapid pulse against his own chest and Holden’s panting breath on his neck. He wanted to put his arms around Holden and tell him to calm down. But he didn’t want to remind Holden of Ed Kemper and Vacaville. So he ended up putting one hand on Holden’s head and ran his fingers through Holden’s dark hair. 

Holden made a whimpering sound. Then he pushed Bill away and straightened up. He had tears on his face but he quickly wiped them away. “I am sorry.” He looked embarrassed for leaving wet marks on Bill’s shirt. “I… I just thought of those innocent people that were slaughtered. And there’s nothing I can do besides waiting for new bodies to show up.” 

“It’s not your fault.” Bill said. 

Holden gave him a wry smile. He leaned back and rested his head against the wall. “I still dream of Atlanta sometimes. I didn’t dream of those children - I felt bad about that. I dream of myself running with a heavy cross on my back, trying to race ahead of people. I tried to put up the cross. But it fell down and crushed me.” He paused before he added. “I dream about it every night. Then I woke up to more bodies and no suspect.” 

“Jesus, Holden. I didn’t know it weighed on you like this-“ Bill was interrupted. “No you didn’t. Because I didn’t tell you. I don’t want to tell you. You have too much on your plate already. I don’t need you to babysit me.” Holden lowered his eyes. He looked like a lonely kid that wanted affection so badly yet didn't know how to ask. 

“You know what? Sometimes you are a know-it-all. Some other time you are just unbelievably dumb.” Bill cupped Holden’s face in hand and forced Holden to look at him. “We are partners. We look out for each other. Next time, tell me.” 

There was a polite cough. Bill turned and saw Bolten standing by the door, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…not to say there was anything…” He was mumbling unrecognizable syllables now.

“What is it?” Holden collected himself and asked.

“I think you might want to read this report as well - I think it is connected to Charlie’s case.”Bolten said. “The victim-Lennie Small-was threatened and beaten up with an iron crowbar, and later locked up at knifepoint. For some reason perpetrators left him there. Then Lennie managed to break free and escape.” Bolten explained the scene to Holden and Bill. “Lennie is a big man. He had some serous injuries but managed to get home. His mom took him to hospital and reported the incident to us.” 

“How did this connect to Charlie’s case?” Bill asked.

“Lennie told his mom something about being tied up and hurt by some local boys in a room . We then searched the house - the one near where Charlie was found - and found blood stain in one of the empty units. Matched with Lennie’s.” Bolten answered. “But Lennie refused to speak of what happened anymore. Didn’t give any names. Won’t let any of us go near him in hospital. His mom took him home.” 

“And we might have a witness.” Holden closed his notebook and gestured Bill. “Let’s talk to Lennie.”

Bill checked his watch. It was almost two in the morning. “No, we need sleep.” 


	4. Four

They drove over Arlington Bridge towards Fredericksburg. Holden rolled down the backseat window when Bill lit his forth or fifth cigarette of the day. Cool evening air swept in, bringing in a hint of humid musky smell and a low sound coming from river water splashing on bridge piers. 

“Do you think we can get anything from Lennie?” Holden asked quietly. 

“It’s late, Holden. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. Just put the case aside and forget about it for one night. Alright?” Bill didn’t want to pursue the topic further after one dreadfully long and exhausting day. But he couldn’t stop himself. “Have a life.” He said. He felt that his car came to the glare ice over hill and hit it before he could get on the brake, and he felt the free spin of the skid. 

Then he saw Holden’s face from the rearview mirror. Holden looked like one small wounded animal on the side of a highway, bleeding, startled and still struggling to find somewhere to hide. Damn. A part of Bill’s brain at the back of his head -the part he tried so hard to suppress- like the washroom mirror he stared into in mornings, the thin voice of his conscience, the maggot on the cheese of his self-pride, the commentator of his nightmares, and the death’s head of his remaining empathy - all that part of his brain had kept shouting at him: “You are making it worse. Every single sentence you just said was making it worse. Can’t you just shut up, you blabbermouth!” 

But Holden didn’t say anything back. He turned his whitening face away and looked out of the window. So Bill swallowed down his “I didn’t mean it that way”. It stuck at his throat like a day-old frozen corn bread. 

They arrived at Holden’s apartment. Bill got out of the car and followed Holden into the apartment lobby. “Holden. If you need anything-“ He was trying to make up for what he said.

“I don’t need you to escort me up. If that’s what you are suggesting.” Holden turned to him with jaws snapped shut and started to walk away. Bill reached out and grabbed Holden’s arm. “Fine. I need something from you.”

Holden stopped and looked at Bill with skeptical eyes. Bill found himself swallowing hard nervously. “Can I crash at your place? Nancy was selling the house.” He started to scratch his head. “Just tonight. I will find a hotel tomorrow-“

“Sure.” Holden nodded and started to walk towards the elevator. The hallway to Holden’s apartment never felt this long. 

Holden lock himself into the bathroom shortly after they went in the room, not even taking off his jacket and leaving it folded on the chair. Bill fished out his cigarette packet, then stopped and went to open the living room windows first. His attention was attracted to the small orange bottle on the coffee table. 

He sat down on the couch and picked up the Valium bottle. It was empty. Bill remembered that the bottle was still half-full several days ago when Holden broke down in the car. Shit, was the kid overdosing on this?

Bill stared at that bright orange-colored bottle. He remembered Holden when they first met, the blue-eyed boy scout was so full of curiosity and candidness that he reminded Bill of early summer days, when burning heatwaves had not yet engulfed him. He even missed road school, Holden’s initial nervousness with their subjects turning to fascination, his own disbelief in the boy morphing into stout support over time. Their life back then was like the highway they drove down in California, with stretching shades of green before them and unknown destinations ahead of them, full of promises. 

Then Vacaville happened. Atlanta happened. Summer was gone and will never return. The curious, boyish and even a bit downright blue-flamer was forever lost to Bill. What’s left was only some bare skin and bones tied to a high cross, in a dried-up pond covered with moss. Bill’s head was pounding. He put the empty bottle into his pocket and went into the kitchen in search for something to drink. He knew if he didn’t chug down some alcohol right now, either the entire world gonna crash right on him or he will go out and take a swing at this goddamn world. 

He didn’t understand his rage. Stress and anxiety were part of the deal when they signed up for law enforcement. You either cope or you are out. Now after burying his family life and standing on the fringe of losing his partner, he was furious. No one said it’s gonna be easy. But the cross they bear turned out to be sacrificing almost everything they have. 

Holden appeared by the kitchen door. He brought a blanket and pillow and handed them to Bill. He kept his eyes low. “You can have the couch.” 

“Holden. How many pills did you take?” Bill asked. Holden still fixed his eyes on the floor, as if there was something deeply intriguing on the carpet. “Holden, I need you to look at me. Are you overdosing on Valium?” Bill took out the empty bottle and placed it on countertop. 

Holden looked up in disbelief. “No. I-“ He lowered his head again. “I flushed the pills away. I don’t want to take them.” 

“What?” 

Holden took the small bottle and threw it into garbage bin. “You know what Valium does to your brain? It makes you forget. It dulls the edges of reality. It detaches you from feelings. I can’t do that. I can’t afford to forget and feel nothing while still do what I do.” He said. “Show some fucking professionalism. Like you said.” 

Holden leaned back onto kitchen counter. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular - Holden’s kitchen was as bare as it can get in an occupied apartment. Bill cast a look on Holden and saw how, under the yellow ceiling light, Holden’s face was smooth like marble under moonlight. He looked weary yet immaculate, like wilting white daisies against black coffin wood. 

Holden curled his fingers slightly, as if he was trying to hold onto something. Bill could have reached out easily and given Holden something to lean on. But he didn’t. Despite the only distance between them was fifteen inches of empty space, Bill felt that Holden was miles away. He wanted to know why he didn’t reach over. He was telling himself repeatedly that he was not a coward, and he was not afraid. 

Fuck it. To this point he and Holden had nothing to lose anymore. “Come here.” Bill closed the fifteen-inch empty space between them, pushed Holden against the wall and pressed his lips on Holden’s mouth. Holden tasted like vermouth and orange peels, bitter in every pleasant way. 

Holden pulled away before leaving a lingering nibble on Bill’s lower lip. His eyes were of pure light blue. Bill felt his boxers getting tight. So he grabbed Holden’s collar and slid his tongue into Holden’s mouth. He was too worked up to play this game of chicken. 

Holden almost tripped over something on the floor. It was the blanket and pillows that Bill dropped when he reached over. “You can have the bed.” Holden said when he dragged Bill into the bedroom. 

* * *

No one talked about last night when they got up in the morning. Not when they shared the bathroom with Holden taking a shower and Bill trying to squeeze his toothpaste perfectly. Holden smirked when he passed a cup of coffee to Bill, who had just lit his first cigarette of the day. “Breakfast of champions.” Holden joked.

Bill put his hands up. “Can we go?” 

They drove to Barry Farm to talk with Lennie and his mother, who lived in one of the small units in row houses under public housing. 

Bill had not been to public housing units before. At least not those that still have living people in them. Those plain row houses always have broken street lights next to them. Baby strollers in the front yard block your way. Once you get in, you would see filthy doormats almost turning to rag. The air was humid, teeming with the smell of dog piss, dirty diapers, rotten cabbage and burnt fat. You can smell all kinds of smell there coming out from pathetic human fate. 

Holden was leading the way, in search of the unit that belongs to Lennie. Bill peeked through an open window. It was a tiny dining room. A young mother was removing a steaming pot from the stove. She stood beside the table, stirring contents of the pot listlessly. The room was in a shade of decaying copper green under the flickering fluorescent room light. Somewhere in the house a dog started barking, while a baby was crying her heart out elsewhere. This was the life that Lennie and his mother had. They breathed in the smell of rotten cabbage, tripped over baby strollers and still tried to be grateful of what they had. 

Holden was almost knocked over by a few kids running past him, shouting loud and vulgar words at him, like ravens croaking on high tree tops. Holden pulled back Bill from teaching the kids a lesson. “We are here.” He knocked on the door. 

A short black women opened the door a crack. “Mrs. Small? We are from the FBI. Can we come in?” Holden added. “We just want to ask a few questions.”

The old woman opened the door and let them in. Bill found the room tidy. Furniture was old but kept clean. He can heard kettle whistling in the kitchen. “Is Lennie home?” Bill asked.

Mrs. Small nodded. “He is in his bedroom. He wouldn’t come out… Not even when I call him for breakfast. He wouldn’t talk to me.” She started weeping. “My Lennie…He was so afraid. He wouldn’t even let me address his wounds.”

Holden leaned towards the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. “So Lennie refused to talk about what happened last night. Do you have any idea who might do this to him?” 

Mrs.Small raised her voice. “I know who did this to him. It’s Spencer. And those kids who followed him. Those kids bullied Lennie… They throw stones at our window and put fireworks in our mailbox. They would lure Lennie away with candies and beat him up somewhere else. I scolded them whenever I saw them bothering Lennie. But I am just one old woman… I tried to call the police multiple times, but they said this ‘low-level nuisance’ was not their priority.” That woman’s head was merely bones wrapped by white hair and brown skin, together with painful memories. She shook her head slightly. “What can I do?” She repeated those words. “What can I do… I am one poor old woman. They tried to take my Lennie from me. What can I do?” 

Bill tried to tell her that things are different now. “We are the FBI. We will look into this.” He couldn’t bring himself to say they can change anything. He is like one liar trying so hard to convince this suffering woman that her life is worth living and better days await her. He puts up one illusory cross as if things would improve so long as she prayed hard enough. Life forged many heavy crosses. Some are for people to bear as if whoever makes sacrifices, no matter how high the price, would be saved. Some others are put up for hope and inspiration yet they often stood in vain. None of those crosses ever make things better. He watched the woman wept and murmured prayers like “may God send us brighter and joyful days”. He said nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short bridge before the final chapter - I def have written heavily on the case rather than on Bill and Holden's relationship. A little catch-up here.


	5. Five

Bill went out of the house. He was dying for a smoke after this. Holden followed him out. “Any chance we could talk to Spencer?” 

Bill shook his head. “No. He is a minor. Can’t question him unless we have evidence he was involved.” 

“Fine. Maybe we can get Lennie talk to us later-“ Holden was cut short by a high-pitched voice. “Ya cops doin’fine?” It came from a tall black boy, with another group of young black teenagers behind him. The boy dressed in a dark blue paisley shirtwith a pair of ray-ban hanging on the front collar, was chewing gum loudly. Other kids behind him were in simple T-shirts and vests, a couple of them having red bandanas tucked in their jeans pockets. 

“FBI. And we are doing fine.” Bill winked at Holden. It seemed Spencer and his gang just walked upon them. “What’s your name?” 

The tall boy made a gesture tapping his hat despite not wearing one. “Spencer. At your service.” He turned to his followers and exclaimed,“Y’all heard him? Fucking FBI comin up here! Ain’t it big?” 

Narcissist and attention-driven. Bill made a mental note on pulling out Spencer’s file once they get back to the precinct. Then he heard Holden asking Spencer, “Where were you last night?”

The boy popped his gum. “Nothin. Just hanging out on the streets with my friends here. Playin ball .” He shrugged. This boy had a stinking smell around him, like he had just been dug out from a ditch. And he was constantly popping his gums. The irritating popping sound that almost had a “Fuck you” bubble appearing together with it. 

“Did you see Lennie while you were out? We had reports saying he was beaten up by someone. Pretty badly.” Holden asked while staring at Spencer. Spencer just made a dramatic shrug. “I dunno, man. Can’t play ball with him.” Boys behind him bursted into laughter. “That moron probably fall into a hole or something and hurt himself. Such a half-witted, can’t even walk straight.” Holden nodded at the answer and went back into the house.

“How about Charlie Keys? Ever heard of him?” Bill tried to probe more from the Spencer kid. They might not get a chance like this again if Spencer decides to walk away on them. A minor is a minor. And FBI respects procedures. 

Spencer frowned while the other boisterous boys turned silent. “I know him. Not too much fun. But he’s fine.” Spencer looked undisturbed by the fact that “not-too-much-fun” Charlie was a dead corpse in police morgue right now. “Shit happens.”

Bill noticed a few kids shifting on their feet when Spencer talked. One skinny boy caught his eye. That boy was sweating and looking away. He stood at the very end of the group and looked as if he was ready to dash away any minute. “Hey, you-“ Bill called out to the boy. 

Spencer turned and glared at the skinny boy. He then turned back to Bill and said breezily, “You gentlemen have a good day.” He whistled with the entire group ran away after him. 

Holden emerged from the house to outside. “Bill? Lennie agreed to come with us. Where’s Spencer?”

“Left with his minions. We might want to look at his file as well.” Bill said. 

* * *

They headed back to the precinct. Lennie curled up on the back seat like a startled stray cat. He was a large man with a face that looked like he had, as an infant, run face-first into the wall. He was silent for the whole trip.

Holden helped Lennie to get out the car and led him to the interrogation room. He then asked Bolten to bring in some evidence they found in the empty unit where Lennie was beaten, together with Spencer’s record - a crowbar, a picture of Charlie’s body found on the streets, another picture of Charlie grinning brightly from his mom and a knife.

As soon as Bill and Holden sat down, Lennie recoiled to the wall and grabbed the doorknob as if he wanted to run away, but kept his gaze on the iron bar. He then stared at Holden for a while with blank eyes, reaching out his hands like a bear extending its paws trying to touch and understand something. Then he suddenly stuck his head out. “I know-I know you-you are with them-you want to beat me.” He glared at Holden with such intensity that Bill thought Lennie’s eyes are gonna bulge out. He was searching Holden’s face, like an old woman trying to break open a box with weary fingers. 

Holden didn’t flinch from Lennie’s sudden movements. “Lennie. I am not with the people that beat you.” He added firmly, “Can you tell us who tried to beat you last night?” 

Lennie leaned back into his chair and looked at Holden with blank eyes. Lennie still had bruises on his arms, while almost half of his head was wrapped with bandage. “This.” Bill pointed at his own head. “Who did this to you? Was it him?” He showed Lennie the mug shot of Spencer. Lennie winced as if he took a blow in the stomach upon seeing the picture of Spencer. “No-No-No-“ He grabbed his head and started sobbing. “Head hurts-“ He had tears dripping down from his chin, too frightened to raise his head up from his arms. 

“Hey, sshh-“ Holden walked over and tried to pat Lennie to calm him down. But Lennie reacted dramatically. He fell down from the chair, almost immediately crawled to the corner and tried to hide from Holden’s touch as much as possible. 

“It’s ok. We will not hurt you.” Holden backed up a little to keep a comfortable distance for Lennie. “Do you want candy? Chocolate? Gonna make you feel better.” He pulled out a handful of candies from his pocket and showed them to Lennie, who was still sobbing softly. Lennie raised his eyes briefly and stopped crying for a moment. But then his eyes were filled with horror when he saw the bright-colored bubblegum in Holden’s hand. 

“You are with them!” He cried. “He said-He said-if I can pop a gum he wouldn’t beat me-“ Now he was trying to hide beneath the table. “Please don’t hurt me-“

Bill pulled Holden back. “He had enough.” He and Holden left the room after asking Detective Bolten to come in and calm Lennie down. It’s asking too much from Lennie for him to relive the horror repeatedly. Bill could still hear Lennie’s cry down the hallway, “Why-Why me?”

It was devastating. “We can’t get any detail from him. Even if we did, his words cannot be used to convict. He was not qualified as a witness because of his mental state.” Holden said grimly. 

They stonewalled. Lennie’s mom came and took him home. She walked pass Bill and Holden at the precinct entrance and nodded. She was in a pale blue dress with a matching small purse- the blue was so pale from repeated washing that it almost looked white. She looked weary, as if dressing up tidily and coming here had exhausted all her strength in life. 

“You will catch him, right? Those people that did this to my boy-“ Her voice was trembling and shaken with grief. But her light brown eyes, her imploring unflinching eyes were fixed firmly on Holden.

“We will try our best.” Holden said honestly. Damn. Boy scout can never lie, and probably would never lie, thought Bill. Mrs. Small just shook her head. She turned away from Holden and pushed the door to get in. 

“I failed her.” Holden said when Mrs. Small had disappeared down the hallway. He went back into the room. Bill put out his half-smoked cigarette and went after Holden. 

Bolten had asked interns to send in files on Spencer and other boys they saw today. Their file said Spencer lived with his mother after his parents separated. His mom struggled to support the family with public welfare, but couldn’t risk to take jobs as that would made her ineligible for social benefits. Bolten said he visited their home a couple of times before. “The only furniture in their living room was a single mattress on the floor, with beer cans and bottles scattered around. It’s a hard time.I heard once she took pay for babysitting a neighbor’s kid. Then investigators burst into her home the next day threatening to remove her for receiving benefits.” Detective Bolten said. “She tried to care for Spencer as much as she can - but Spencer never appreciated that.”

“Apparently.” Holden was going through Spencer’s rap sheet. It was quite comprehensive: from minor theft to the trade and arson. 

“Still, nothing we can use to call him in and question him.” Bill put down his glasses gloomily. He was about to suggest Holden that they should get out and see whether they can question other street kids, when one junior officer knocked on their door. 

“Sorry. I got someone - one of the street boys - saying he wanted to see you.” Behind him was a tall skinny black boy, hiding his face under the hood of his jacket. 

“Thanks.” Bill gestured for the teenager to come in. The boy sat down on a chair in the corner quietly. Bill couldn’t tell whether he was one of Spencer’s minions as the boy still had his hood on. 

The boy didn’t speak for a few minutes so they all waited in silence. Bill and Holden were used to this practice now. They pretended to be studying case files contemplatively and gave no attention, not even a single glance to the boy, while they knew the boy was darting glances all across the room. 

It was a game of chicken. Whoever blinks first will lose the game. That boy was clearly losing it as he shifted nervously in his chair. Still, Bill and Holden didn’t look at him. Patience always paid off in such cases. 

“So I get out of this shit if I tell ya what happened?” The young boy finally spoke up as he twisted his fingers. 

“That depends on what you can tell us.” Bill put down his file and turned to the boy. “Let’s start by taking off your hood, and tell us your name.”

“Skinny. They all call me Skinny. Spencer called me that.” Bill picked out Skinny’s record and read a few pages. The boy looked younger than he actually was, with a boyish irritation on his face. Bill now remembered him from their encounter with Spencer in the morning. He was the tall boy that Bill called out earlier, for he looked so nervous that it caught Bill’s attention. “So you are seventeen. Not so much a minor anymore. What did you do when you hang out with Spencer?” He stressed the minor part and was satisfied to see Skinny lowering his head to hide his anxiousness. 

“Nothing. Just hanging out…playin ball, drive around, get girls-“ Kid was definitely covering up something. So Bill threw a straight punch. “Where were you the night Charlie Keys was shot?”

Skinny swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Man, I was fucked.” He sounded broken. “It was all Spencer. He got this idea that these morons running around in our streets was a disgrace. And we need to get rid of them coz we have a reputation to hold.”

“What reputation?” Holden had pressed the recording button on their recorder earlier. They were finally getting somewhere.

“Spencer and us-we protect our streets. And these idiots brought nothin but shame on us.” He paused for a moment before he continued. “It started off small-y’know, just beating and kicking-then it got out of control. Spencer liked it, the torture and killing. He ordered us to spill acid on those people and burn them with gasoline.” 

“It sounded horrible. It was horrible. But Spencer made it all righteous- he said we should be proud of ourselves coz we are upholding our name.” Skinny said.

“Then what about Charlie Keys? He was not mentally-retarded.” Holden asked.

Skinny shook his head. “That was an accident. He was not on Spencer’s list. He just walked by the building and heard Lennie’s cry when we beat up that idiot. Charlie was not one of us. Spencer went out to make sure he wouldn’t say anything and asked me to stay behind and finish off Lennie.” He closed his eyes and bit his lips before he could speak again. “But I couldn’t do it…I can’t just burn him.”

Skinny was practically murmuring now. “I dunno… I couldn’t sleep after that… I saw Charlie and Lennie every time I close mi eyes…And the screams-I hear them all the time.” 

The room was silent, with only the sound of their cassette recorder hissing in the background. Nothing is lost. Nothing would ever lost. There will always be clues for fleeting moments of what happened: discarded crowbars, blood stain on the floor, footprints on stairs and throbbing pain from old wounds. And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our clues gave them back their moments in life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us.

“So do I get pardon from this? It was all Spencer-” Skinny asked. 

“We will put your confession on record. The judge will make the final decision.” Bill paused the recorder. “Bolten? Get me that motherfucker Spencer.”

* * *

Bill and Holden went out to grab a quick lunch. By the time they got back to the conference room, Spencer was already there, chewing his gum. He blew a small pink bubble with his thick lips and popped it loudly. Pop. Pop. Pop. Bill’s head was on the fringe of exploding. 

He pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “Five mentally-retarded black men tortured to death, another one attempted murder against Lennie Small-Why?”

The boy just shrugged. “What reasons do you need?” He laid back on the chair and swung his legs on the desk.

The silicon chips inside Bill head almost switched to overload. “What?”

The boy shrugged again. “I don’t like Mondays.” 

“But only two of the five victims were killed on Mondays.” Holden stared at Spencer. Holden was unbearably dogmatic sometimes. 

“Does it matter? It just livens up the day.” Spencer spit out chewed bubble gum on the floor. It stayed there with an ugly gray sticky stain. 

“Then how about Charlie Keys? We had evidence pointing out that you shot him. Two days ago.” Holden pushed a photo of Charlie’s body across to Spencer. Any normal person would flinch at the sheer goriness of the photo. But Spencer didn’t even bother to look at it. He started to grind the gum on the floor with his shoe.

“Look. I don’t know what you got from Lennie or whoever. Even if you went through these things for a million times both in your head and in practice, things don’t just go as you planned.” Spencer put his hands up. “Keys boy happened to walk by the house and saw everything. What am I supposed to do, dummy? Make him pinky swear that he won’t say a word or I will spit at him?” He sneered. “Of course I put a bullet through his head. Never liked that nerd. Bullets shot are even faster than sound. That bastard didn’t even know what killed him. Bang-bang. Big time.” He pointed two fingers at his head as if that was a fine pistol.

“But yeah. We shouldn’t have left that moron Lennie back there. I told Skinny to finish him but Skinny got cold feet. Coward. Can’t do one thing right.” He turned his chair around and sat backwards. “I am surprised y’all got something out from the idiot. How did you do that? Get Lennie talking something other than bullshit?” 

Holden didn’t answer the question. They still needed to keep Spencer in the dark of Skinny’s confession. Spencer could still influence his gang out there. There could be repercussions. “Why do you tortured and killed these patients?” He asked Spencer instead. Spencer said nothing.  “They didn’t worth it, right? They shouldn’t be given a second chance in the first place.” Holden said to Spencer pointedly. “They didn’t belong in this neighborhood.” Here we go again. You need to speak their language to get crazies talking.

Spencer raised his head up. “Scums like him belong to the dumpsite. He thought he just people! “Spencer snorted. “Doin’ nothin but gave us bad names. Idiot doesn’t even know he black! We people get fucked all because of imbeciles like him.” 

He glanced over Holden and Bill and grinned a wide shit-eating grin. “You beat the shit out of them, lit them with petrol and guess what? They fucking burn like a shitload of church candles. So bright almost blind me.” Spencer leaned forward and put his hands on the desk, still wearing that sleazy grin on his face. “In a hundred years when you are fucked and I am fucked, when we people are no longer fucked out of a job and been shot by police because we got rid of the bad apples, they will remember me for doin’ God’s own work.” He made a cross on his chest. It sickened Bill.

Bill smashed his case folder on the desk. “And you will be Jesus fucking Christ in the chair?” Holden grabbed his arm to pull him back. 

Spencer cackled as if he just heard a wonderful joke. “I like this guy.” He turned to Holden. “He is angry. And afraid. Let me tell ya one thing: Fear, is good. You gotta make people scared to make a name here. Fear gets shit done.” He crossed his arms and laid back. “In a hundred years we all dead. At least I died for something worthwhile. Better dead than forgotten.”  Again. Some crazies thought they saw a holy cross ahead of them shining so bright like white neon lights and started a crusade right away. Bill thought. 

“Y’all had your story now. I did what I did and I am not slightly regretful about it. I own my work.” He stood up and made a gesture like a hat tip to Bill and Holden. 

Detective Bolten cuffed Spencer and took him out of the room before he could spill anymore bullshit. Bill could still hear Spencer whistling down the hallway through the door. “Fascinating.” Holden said after he pressed the stop on their recorder. 

“Congratulations. You got it right the whole time.” Bill said to Holden and stormed out the room for a smoke. He was not going to admit it. But his heart sunk when he heard Spencer saying he was angry and afraid. Spencer was right about that. He was angry yet he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t send Spencer to the chair because Spencer is a minor. Even more, Bill was afraid. Some people just went on a wrong path, perhaps unwillingly. They made a wrong turn at the crossing and things all blew up like a hurricane. Skinny regretted what he did. Those people were not scary. He was afraid that perhaps some other people are born with something wrong inside them. They see the world differently, do something horrible, and think they are the fucking martyr. People like Spencer? They think they are Jesus on the cross themselves. 

But how can you tell? Every baby is born like little angels, innocent and immaculate, wrapped in baby blue towels. Bill remembered when they first took Brian home, how the little guy ran around the house and settled on the yard playing dirt. Then the story just got real fucked up. And Bill still didn’t know whether it was on him or something else. He was scared, lost and had no clue on what to do. 

When you entered this profession you thought so long as you try hard enough and dig deep enough, you will find truth, get answers, and right the wrong, to a certain extent. There is always a way for people to take control and fix the glitches of the great world-machine. And crimes they look at? Those are just aberrations.You put those bastards behind bars and you can go home and sleep like a baby. 

But there is none of that. He and Holden had turned every rock but they found nothing of such kind. Bill couldn’t say for sure whether such things exist anymore, because it took a hell lot of effort to believe in such things. Yet to believe in such things, you need to believe in yourself. Then to have faith in yourself, you would need to know for sure that truth and justice did exist —it’s a catch 22. How can you stride forward when you don’t have legs to do so? 

He thought of Detective McGraw, that vulture-like man back in Sacramento and how that very man broke down saying Ada Jeffrey wouldn’ t hurt a fly. He thought of how McGraw’ s last moments might be, dozing off in front of the TV, all alone and perhaps still remorseful about the unsolved case of Ada. He wondered whether that’ s gonna be him in twenty years. Too many cases. Too little he could do. He had learnt over the years, not to make immoderate demands on reality. You can’t fightsomething inevitable like gravity. 

They have reached the end of this road, but not the destination. It was rather the beginning of downhill, in the eternal return of affirmation and suffering. There will be more victims, more bodies and more convictions. Yet you can’t do closure with the dead. They lay six-feet underground in their mutilated bodies. Their voices, coming from rivers and swamps, alongside highways and beneath bridges, called out to you asking, “Why me”?

There was no victory lap. Bill felt like he was one marathon runner , who had hanged on all the way yet only to be told that he ran the wrong course. He felt like one wildebeest who had managed to escape the chase of lions and bites of alligators, only to realize that there were no pastures greener on the other side. 

There was a gentle pat on his shoulder. A warm hand that stayed there, steady and reassuring. He turned and was surprised to realize that it was Holden’s hand. 

Holden coughed before speaking. “I got something to tell you and you would want to hurt me if I say it. But I got to say it. I want you to hear it out and refrain from knocking my teeth out.” 

Well, that happens almost every time Holden opened his mouth, thought Bill. Perhaps not every time. Sometimes situation transpired into a hug, a kiss or tangled sheets on a queen bed. He never knew what comes next, especially with Holden. It’s hard enough to predict the future, and even harder to predict Holden. 

“Thanks for the warning.” Bill replied dryly and spread his arms apart. “Come on, shoot.” 

“Bill, I know things might not be working out well for you lately, with the case, Nancy and Brian- “ Holden quickly cut himself off on the details. “I just want to say that you are welcome to crash at my place any time. And if you needed anything-“ He trailed off. But Bill caught his last few words. “ I am here, Bill.”

Bill didn’t say anything at first. Then he dragged Holden into a hug. At least today will be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading through! This is a long one and heavily case-focused. I wish I could put more fluff scenes in it ;(
> 
> In case anyone is interested, the real-life case I referred to while writing this happened in Hong Kong in 1997, where a few teenager tortured and murdered another teen of similar age, as the latter teen witnessed them torturing a mentally-retarded person and threatened to report to the police. It was both a social tragedy and a personal one. 
> 
> (Wiki link for the case in Chinese: https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E7%A7%80%E8%8C%82%E5%9D%AA%E7%AB%A5%E9%BB%A8%E7%87%92%E5%B1%8D%E6%A1%88)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! The case could be long as I am adapting real-life cases into this fic (with time and location changed). I am not writing in my native language so please point out any errors and inconsistencies.


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